


True Affection

by daynight



Series: Telegraph Avenue [11]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything seemed to be going well for everyone else except Liebgott.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Affection

**Author's Note:**

> No offence intended to the real men. Completely based on fictional portrayals.

The Easy Company Troopers Tour was a blinding success and now all they had left to do was to return to Telegraph Avenue and wait for their record to be officially released to the public. It was good to be back, to relax, to see all the old favourites from the bar, as well as Babe and Harry Welsh. A few days after they came back, the band and their various friends gathered in the atrium of the Battalion at Nixon’s request.

“I guess you’ve been wondering why I’ve been so quiet this week.” Stated Nixon to the group, biting his lip. They had, in fact, it was highly unlike him. They hoped he didn’t have post-tour blues. Nixon looked to Dick Winters, a calm presence at his side, and gave him a tiny nod.

“We’re moving into a house together.” Dick Winters announced over a round of clinking drinks (soda water for him) as Nixon beamed on.

“Fantastic!”

“Congrats!” Joe Toye smacked Nixon on the back so hard he almost spat out his drink. Lipton and Speirs gave their pleased approval, having already moved into a nicely presented condo together with a dog that Speirs could be seen stalking the streets with in the early hours of the morning.

“Amazing!” Stated Liebgott, a bit too enthusiastically to be entirely genuine. Without missing a beat, he continued. “Sooo…what are you doing with the old apartment?” A pretty obtuse segue, even for him. The band groaned. Liebgott’s flat and his constant insistence of his right to it was a subject that they had long grown weary of and since Webster’s recent departure after the tour, Liebgott had seemed to grow grouchier and less obliging every day, focusing his energy on making angry thrashing music and re-obtaining the apartment. Webster had tempered Joe well and they all missed his absence maybe more than Liebgott would never admit he did.

Dick Winters pursed his lips in a smile that seemed to imply an inside joke between him and Nixon.

“Actually, we’ve sold it.”

Liebgott almost dropped his glass.

“Sorry Joe.” Nixon patted him on the arm, amused false concern all over his face as Liebgott sulkily sank in his chair.

 

* * *

 

 

Aside from Liebgott’s apartment struggles, a strange phenomenon was happening in Telegraph Avenue. Babe Heffron’s little musical endeavours were actually getting quite a bit of airplay, due to publicity from the Easy Company Tour and having been handed on a mixtape over to a couple of DJ’s by Nixon. This flurry of small success was amusing to everyone, for a variety of reasons, one of them being Babe’s continuing insistence that one particular song was not in fact a love-sick ode to a certain member of their circle.  

Surreptitiously enough, ‘Red Cross’ was continuously playing over the local radio at the bar, which was always awkward/funny, especially if any of the band members were around, as they would jiggle their eyebrows suggestively at Roe. He never really picked up on it; however, as it was unlikely that he ever really listened to the music playing particularly carefully, off in his own world. Liebgott had once asked him what kind of music he liked and he had said ‘old music’, as vague as anything.  To be honest, Babe was the only one who knew anything at all about any of Roe’s preferences as he mostly kept everything personal very close to his chest.

Malarkey and Perconte decided to test his perception, half out of interest and half out of a strange sense of pity for poor Babe, struggling against this odd brand of mysterious obliviousness and ambivalence that surrounded Eugene Roe. They brought an iPod to the silent bar in the middle of the day, when there would be less distractions for the Doc and ordered a couple drinks, then, without mentioning it to the quiet bartender, pressed play. Real subtle-like.

The song played in full whilst Malarkey watched on, waiting for a reaction.

_“Even if I pray I could not see how,_

_Anything they send will be better,_

_Nothing could be better,_

_No one more holy than you._

_Palest face in the California sun…”_

Roe paused about five lines in, holding the shot glasses. His forehead wrinkled in confusion. He stood completely motionless as the entire song ran through, stuck in that position. The song ended and he perceptibly gave his head a tiny shake and started back up, still wearing a concerned, perplexed expression. Handing Malarkey and Perconte their drinks, he went over to the iPod and played the song again, crossing his arms and standing in silent, confused concentration. Malarkey and Perconte stifled their laughs, quickly slugging their shots and leaving Doc to his reverie.

“Wait.” He spoke just as they were about to step out of the door. They looked at each other, waiting for the penny to drop, waiting for him to question them. He wasn’t stupid by any means; he had to have figured something out.

“You left your…” he motioned to the iPod.

“Ah. Thanks.” Perconte pocketed it, one eyebrow raised at Malarkey.

“Hmm.” Replied the Doc, already lost to his mysterious thoughts. He was gazing at his own hands lying flat on the counter like he’d never seen them before in his life.

When Malarkey and Perconte returned to Malarkey’s place, Liebgott was yelling up a storm from his base in the front room.

“Which one of you brought the apartment? I know it was you! No one else knows about it! It’s a hidden gem! You fucking assholes. ”

“Do you think I have the money for that?” Replied Luz nonchalantly, propping his foot up on a stool.

“Who knows?” Growled Liebgott. “Maybe you squirreled a lot away from your comedy career?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous! If you bastards don’t tell me I swear to God…”

“Jesus, what a drama queen…” Muttered Perconte, not as under his breath as he may have intended.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you Perco. You always loved that apartment.” Liebgott pointed accusingly at the other man, who held up his arms in exasperation.

“You need to chill the fuck out, Lieb, this is getting’ to be a pain in the ass.”

 

* * *

 

 

Liebgott went to the place he always went when he wanted a good, solitary sulk – The Battalion Bar. He waved briefly at Roe behind the bar, but although he returned the greeting, he seemed to be as grumpy as Liebgott felt, frowning to himself. He obviously wasn’t in the mood for a long Liebgott style expletive-laced rant, so Liebgott left him be.  ‘Red Cross’, Babe’s little tune, was playing again, floating lightly over the clinking, clashing ambience of the bar, like musical fairy dust. Two girls at the bar were singing along and giggling whilst enjoying the early evening happy hour.

“I love this song!” One girl turned to the other, flicking her hair.

“Yeah, don’t you think his voice is pretty hot?”

“I bet he’s cute.”

“I bet he’s super cute.”

The bartender, wearing a constipated expression, silently handed them their next round.

Halfway through a whiskey and ice, Joe felt his phone vibrate loudly in his pocket. Swearing quietly, he extricated the offending object and answered with an unenthusiastic ‘what?’.

“Hey Joe!” Nixon’s oddly cheerful voice came crackling through the speaker. “Could you come over to the apartment? We have some stuff of yours that we need you to take before we move out.”

“Is that necessary? What is it?” Joe curled his lip impatiently. He felt Nixon was messing with him somehow, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the source of his amusement. He was probably torturing him in revenge for certain tour shenanigans (a permanent marker in between the eyes that gave the effect of a heavy uni-brow to his already voluptuous eyebrows. Nixon didn’t notice until halfway through their third interview.) and sadistically enjoying his pain.

“Your ‘Screamin Jay Hawkins’ records.”

Joe groaned in annoyance. That was something he couldn’t live without. Those records have taken him ages to get together. They were a great feature to his personal collection.

“Fine. Give me five. But know that I’m not happy about this.”

“As you’ve made us very aware.”

“Whatever.” Replied Liebgott moodily, throwing on his jacket and leaving Malarkey’s place in what could only be described as a huff.  He realised he was being incredibly immature, like a teenager in a strop, but he couldn’t bring himself to shape up. He didn’t have much going for him right now that would warrant an attitude adjustment. Tour over, waiting to see how the record sells. Sleeping on Malarkeys couch. No Web.

_Where the fuck was Webster when he needed him?_

Closing in on the record store, Liebgott took the back fire escape way up to the apartment, glancing at its familiar rusted iron. He mounted the stairs quickly, two steps at a time and rapped neatly on the back door. No one answered but music, Fleet Foxes or some shit (Liebgott had no idea Nixon was a fan), filtered through the door so Liebgott turned the handle and entered.

“Yo, Nix? I’m here.” He thrust his hands in the pockets of his battered jean jacket with the frayed Easy Company patch and waited for Nixon to round the corner. The hallway didn’t actually look any different from how it did when Liebgott had lived there. He supposed that Winters and Nixon had occupied the place so briefly they barely had time for alterations. Sighing at the fact he was going to be kept waiting by the perpetually late Nixon, he propped himself up against the wall and leant his head back onto the cool plaster, closing his eyes.

“Hey.” That wasn’t Nixon’s voice. Liebgott opened one eye at the figure stood in the doorway to the lounge.

“What the hell are you doing here?”  Webster leaned against the doorway, somehow prepared for Liebgott’s angry scowl and mean tone, a prickly defence against his pleased surprise. He just smiled blithely through, cooler and more casual than Liebgott thought he had ever seen him. Looking handsome as ever in a cable knit, every inch the Ivy League pretty boy Liebgott knew him to be but with a new air of confidence that was undeniably attractive. _Dick._

“Nice way to greet your boyfriend.”

“Fuck you. You know I hate surprises.” Liebgott tried to keep up the pissed off act, although he felt that Webster could, annoyingly, see right through him.

“That’s not true.”

“You could have said you were coming back.” Liebgott grimaced at the pathetic note in his voice and the fact that he almost ended the statement with ‘I missed you so much’.

“Would have ruined it.”

Liebgott tried his best not to smile.

“Well okay, you’ve had your fun, ya sneaky bastard.  C’mere.” Slightly gruff with withheld emotion, Liebgott gestured with his arms for Webster to come closer and gingerly hugged him, embarrassed at how great it felt to have him near again. Webster drew back, arms still on Liebgott’s shoulders, firm and welcome.

“I’m not quite finished with the surprise.”

“Jesus Christ, what else? Bought me flowers?” Liebgott felt himself blush like some wilting dame and kind of wanted to die on the spot.

“Better. An apartment.”

He could only respond to this with a taken-aback frown.

“Where?”

Webster gave a choked up laugh, disbelieving but jovial.

“Here, you absolute dumbass.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m not joking. Arranged it with Winters and Nixon whilst I was back on the East Coast.”

“Why?”

“More good news.” Webster smirked, obviously proud of the way he’d pulled this off, finally getting one over on Joe in the best way possible. “I got into the masters programme I wanted to. Berkeley, Marine Science. Pluuuus- ” He rubbed his thumb fondly against Liebgott’s sharp chin. “I thought it would be nice to live together. And you love this place so much.”

“Fuck me.” Said Liebgott and promptly melted into his arms like a fucking disgusting, cheesy-ass cliché.

 

* * *

 

 

After a very rushed and heated compliance of Liebgott’s request up against the wall in the hallway, Liebgott seemed to recover from the shock of it all, back to his usual asshole self. He surveyed the apartment, checking each room excitedly.

“Excellent. A dream come true. I get to live here rent free.”

“I thought we could split the…”

“I’m so happy right now. Rent free, what a dream.”

“Okay, fine. If you’re happy.” Webster seemed perfectly pleased to supplicate Liebgott’s whims.

In a move that elevated him even higher in Liebgott’s estimations, he had put everything back the way it was before only not as messy as it had been when Liebgott had inhabited the apartment. The only obvious change was a new double bed with a new mattress, as the idea of inheriting anything quite as intimate from Winters and Nixon honestly repulsed them both.

“Aw, it’s just like how it was! Thank you.” Exclaimed Liebgott, traipsing around the place, Webster in tow.

He stopped in his tracks when he noticed there was a huge poster of a great white shark where his Pink Floyd poster used to be, near the bathroom.

“Apart from that. What the hell is that?”

“My shark poster.”

“I suppose it can stay.”

Lying in bed (Their bed! It was almost unbelievable!) Webster slung his arm over Liebgott’s bare shoulders, lightly patterned with freckles. Liebgott gave him a look and crushed his cigarette into a mug on the bedside table.

“What?” He said, slightly smiling at the conspiratorial look on Webster’s face.

“Aren’t you going to thank me for all this?” Webster lazily cast his arm around the room. Liebgott shifted under his arm, getting comfortable.

“I thought I already did that?” He had, really, under the covers, in the kitchen, doing all the things that Webster particularly liked.  Webster shrugged, grinning.

“Oh you want more?” Liebgott’s eyes were bright with amusement. “You want me to paint you a picture?” He danced his fingers up Webster’s arm. “You want me to write you a song?”

Webster snorted.

“Would be nice.”

“Alright.” Liebgott moved around so he was in front of him, straddling his knees. He closed his eyes in mock emotion, clenching his fist like a dramatic Mariah Carey impersonator and began to croon. “Red Cross…”

“Fuck off!” Laughing, Webster nudged Liebgott off with his knee so he tumbled back onto his side again, apparently picking up Liebgott’s bad language and adopting it, which pleased him somehow, like he was really laying a claim. “Not someone else’s!”

“I’ll think about it.” Liebgott settled back down next to Webster, picking up his arm and replacing it around his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

**The Sea in You**

 

**Easy Company Troopers**

In my dreams sometimes I see,

The Atlantic ocean stretching out,

Fading into the sky.

Grey and endless,

Sweet and blue.

Do you see the ocean too?

I bet you do.

All the places I have seen,

Everywhere that I have been,

The only place my anger fades,

Is in the sea in you.

Do you stand on the yellow shore,

The pacific in your eyes,

As green as you,

Waves as violent,

As my temper can be,

Current pushing you,

Away from me.

All my fucking mistakes,

How much can you take?

How much can I take?

Before it gets too deep.

If I stand here, I’ll drown.

I don’t mind, I don’t mind.

The ocean will carry me.

Back to you.

So step into the ocean too

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on [this gorgeous song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7CY5bT_12Y).


End file.
